


All Was Well

by MykEsprit



Series: Dramione Delectables [18]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: hp_creatures, Creature Fic, F/M, Not Happy, creature: Djinn, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-07-24 01:02:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16170392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykEsprit/pseuds/MykEsprit
Summary: His heart flutters in her presence; her skin burns at his touch. Neither knows why.





	All Was Well

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** 10  
>  **Creature:** Djinn  
>  **Warnings:** Not HEA, alternate reality  
>  **Disclaimer:** This creation is based on characters and situations created and owned by J. K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made, no copyright or trademark infringement, or offense is intended. All characters depicted in sexual situations are above the age of consent.  
>  **Notes:** Many thanks to the following: the mods for putting this fest together; rzzmg for the fantastic prompt; and my beta Orcl777.

**Draco**

**September 1, 2017**

 

There it was again—that flutter at the center of his chest. He never understood why it occurred. Truly, he didn’t want to know—never asked himself the necessary questions to find out, because—

It only happened whenever _she_  was around.

As usual, redheads of all shapes and sizes surrounded Hermione Granger-Weasley—from the frumpy mother-in-law with deep smile lines to the towering husband, who was well on his way to portliness. Their young son stood between them, gazing at the shiny red train with longing. Hermione ran a hand over his short auburn curls.

She, too, eyed the Hogwarts Express, a worried line etched between her eyebrows as she searched each darkened window. When her face relaxed a fraction, Draco followed her line of sight.

Rose Weasley stood half-hidden in the shadows just inside a compartment. The window framed two other occupants—his son Scorpius, who sat across from Harry Potter’s young doppelganger.

A surge of protectiveness swelled in his chest as he surveyed the tableau. Though it happened decades ago, Potter’s rejection of his proffered friendship remained vivid. It was, after all, his first memory of being spurned merely for his last name.

Not that it was to be the last time. No—his surname was a gift that kept on giving.

Scorpius threw his head back with a laugh. Potter’s son—Albus Severus, Draco recalled with a roll of his eyes—leaned forward in his seat, a bright smile on his face as he spoke with Scorpius. Rose Weasley folded her wiry arms in front of her and turned her chin up—a faithful replication of her mother.

Draco snuck another peek at Hermione from the corner of his eye. Her wild curls waved in the wind, and his heart squeezed and pounded against his sternum.

Astoria tugged on his arm. “Shall we go now?”

No sooner had he responded with, “As soon as the Express leaves the station,” did a cheerful whistle blow. Clumps of families waved the train farewell. Some parents wiped away tears; others poorly hid their relief that Hogwarts would look after their children and give them a short reprieve.

He fell in the former category. It was Scorpius’ first year, and he lamented his son would be away from home for such a long time.

His wife wrapped an arm around his back and planted a kiss on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, he’ll be home for the holidays before you know it.”

“Right,” he muttered, his eyes following the train as it pulled away from the platform. When he tore his gaze away, they drew once again to Hermione.

Astoria glanced at him, then to the conspicuous Weasleys. “Oh.” She patted his arm reassuringly. “Are you worried Scorpius won’t get along with their brood?” she asked. “He seemed quite friendly with Albus Potter, so I think he’ll be fine.” They turned away from the tracks and began the slow shuffle out of Platform 9 ¾. “And that Rose Weasley was in their compartment, too.” A sly smile formed on Astoria’s shapely lips. “Quite a pretty thing, don’t you agree? Takes after her mother, and not just the looks, I hear.” Her eyes sparkled, and she squeezed his arm. “Wouldn’t it be something if our Scorpius formed a crush on her?”

Draco scoffed. “Please don’t bring that down on our family,” he muttered. The idea of his son having feelings for the Weasley girl brought a sour taste in his mouth—though his eyes flickered involuntarily to the young girl’s mother.

As the crowd gathered at the exit, Astoria pulled him away.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I think we should go over there,”—she nudged her chin towards his old childhood nemeses—"and at least say hello. Our children are going to school together now, and I have a feeling we’re going to see a lot more of them.”

Draco dug his heels and gawked at his wife.

She planted her hands on her hips, though her voice was gentle when she said, “I think it’s time to bury the hatchet.” She looked pointedly at the Weasleys and Potters, who gathered at the edge of the crowd to wait their turn for the exit.

His eyes once again settled on Hermione. A frown was still fixed on her lips. By her side, Ginny Potter fiddled with her ruby pendant while she gazed at her sister-in-law sympathetically. Then, the pretty redhead leaned closer and said something in Hermione’s ear. Hermione’s laughter rang down the length of the platform.

Draco’s heart wrung inexplicably. “What’s the point?” He sighed. “It’s not like we’re ever going to get along.”

* * *

 

**Hermione**

**March 6, 1999**

 

It took a few months, but she was finally used to his presence.

Hermione was conscious of him at Hogwarts—who could have ignored his pompous strut down the narrow castle halls, flanked by his two goons? The way he terrorized underlings and older students alike with barbed words and sheer, physical intimidation? His incessant bullying of Harry?

Of  _course_ , she had always been aware of Draco Malfoy—though his presence was no longer obvious nor obnoxious. Instead of the annoying stab of the needle, he was now a thread in the fabric of their existence.

He sat in the inner circle during meetings around their hooded campfire, silent and grave unless he had something insightful to add. He served breakfast and helped with the washing up of their meager utensils after supper. He patrolled the borders of their small encampment and volunteered for hunting and scavenging runs.

And whenever she met his penetrating gaze, he made her heart race.

"You all right, Hermione?" asked Ron.

She jumped up from her seat on the damp earth. “Ron! What,”—heat crawled up her neck at being caught lingering on thoughts of Draco Malfoy—"erm, what did you say?”

“Just wondering if everything’s okay,” he said, peering at her curiously. “You’re looking a little flushed. Are you coming down with a fever?” He pressed the back of his hand against her forehead.

She brushed it off with a scoff. “I’m fine, Ron! I was probably just…sitting too close to the fire.” She gestured feebly to the small campfire a few feet away.

Ron rolled his eyes and pulled her to the fallen log at the edge of the fire’s warmth, which they used as a bench at meals and during meetings.

“Done with your shift already?” she asked, glancing at the watch on her wrist.

“Yeah, finally.” His eyelids drooped as he stared at the fire, and his fist came up to cover a yawn.

Hermione hid a smile as she nudged him with her elbow. “Get some rest. Are you still going to Diagon Alley later?”

Ron grunted. “I’m going with your blond shadow,” he said, a sly smile pulling up the corners of his lips.

“Oh, stop!” she hissed, punching him in the shoulder.

He faked losing balance on the uneven log and laughed as he got back up. “Aw, you’re all red, Hermione,” he teased. “What’s the matter? Still sitting too close to the fire?”

His hand came up to her forehead again, and she swatted it away. “For Merlin’s sake!” Hermione pressed her cool fingers against her cheeks, willing the heat to dissipate. Her eyes darted beyond the orange glow of the campfire. “You better hope no one heard you!”

“Relax!” Ron chuckled. “It’s not like it would take anyone by surprise. I mean,”—he waved a hand over himself—“if  _I_  noticed how often the git hangs around you, think of how obvious  _he_  is.” He jabbed a finger at her side. “And how obvious  _you_  are, too,” he added in a kinder tone.

Her face slumped into her palms as she groaned. She had been hoping that her glances at Draco had been surreptitious and her blushes at his proximity could be blamed on the natural ruddiness that came from living outdoors. But if even  _Ron_  could see right through her, then  _Draco_ probably—oh, gods—

A heavy arm wrapped around her shoulders as she hunched forward, humiliated.

“Hey,” Ron said softly in her ear. “It’s okay, you know.”

Hermione lifted her head and met his gaze with a skeptical twitch of her eyebrow.

“I know you probably think it’s not the right time for romance,” he said, throwing her a challenging look, “what with us being on the run, and all that.” He squeezed her tighter to his side. “But, if the last year has taught us anything, it’s that there’s no such thing as ‘the right time.’ If there’s something within reach that might make you happy—that will make your life richer in some way—then grab it.”

Warmth spread from the center of her chest to the tips of her toes—one that had nothing to do with the heat of the campfire or the flush of embarrassment at being exposed, and everything to do with her best friend’s surprising astuteness. She leaned in and pressed a kiss on his cheek. “Who knew exhaustion could bring out your philosophical side?” she ribbed lightly.

Ron laughed. “Gods, I really must be knackered if I’m telling you to  _grab_  Draco-bloody-Malfoy.” He planted a kiss on top of her head as he pushed up from the log. “I think I’ll turn in.”

Hermione caught his hand before he moved away; she squeezed his fingers. “Goodnight, Ron.”

“You too,” he said, returning her gesture with a firm squeeze before letting go. “Be safe on patrols,” he said over his shoulder. He entered the darkened tent he shared with his brothers.

For a while, it was quiet—as silent as a night in the woods could be. Insects buzzed and chirped underfoot, while somewhere in the distance, larger animals howled and yelped and growled. It was always at this time of night when everyone was asleep that Hermione lost herself to memories.

Perhaps it was the smell of the campfire. Maybe it was the way it warmed her cheeks while the cool night air touched the nape of her neck, sending a cold shiver down her spine. Or, possibly, it was the comforting rhythm of Ron’s snores, which traveled in the still air. It was as much a part of the soundtrack of her life, having been subjected to it for the months living with him and Harry during their Horcrux hunt—

And in the past ten months since Harry’s defeat at Voldemort’s hand.

After Harry fell at the Battle of Hogwarts, they—whoever had survived the Death Eaters’ attack—scrambled for safety. Hermione had taken Ron and the rest of the Weasleys to the Muggle world, hiding at the outskirts of sleepy villages, hoping that others had made it out alive.

Over weeks, word trickled in of other survivors. Slowly, they regrouped—first, they took in the Lovegoods, and then the Browns. The Finnegans joined their camp as well, with Dean Thomas in tow. The Changs, the Patils—even the entire Greengrass family, who didn’t take sides during the battle and thus earned Voldemort’s ire. Together, they formed their own nomadic community, and every few nights, they pitched their tents on fresh ground in the vast wilderness around Great Britain.

On the night of Hermione’s birthday, Andromeda Tonks arrived at the camp with young Teddy propped on her hip. Her sister and nephew stood several feet behind her, half-hidden in the shadows of the trees.

Upon Voldemort’s final ascent to victory, he grew angry at the Malfoys for their lackluster performance at the Battle of Hogwarts. He spared Narcissa but gave the men a choice in who would pay for the family’s incompetence: Lucius or Draco.

Lucius Malfoy’s final act saved his son’s life.

Banished from the Wizarding world, Narcissa sought the only person she could possibly trust—her sister.

The Malfoys were not welcomed at first. Out of respect for Andromeda, they were given a small tent and a ration of food in exchange for light labor and their help in fetching supplies. To everyone’s surprise—aside from Andromeda—Narcissa turned out to be a brilliant cook. For months, Molly ran ragged trying to provide meals for their large group. Everyone pitched in, of course, but none had the talent to keep up with the Weasley matriarch in her makeshift kitchen. With Narcissa’s help, Molly’s recipes replaced the rotation of stale bread and tinned meat.

They sat around the campfire each night, filling up on roasts and herbed potatoes, fruit pies and conversation—and, slowly, the camp became home.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?"

Hermione shot out of her seat, one hand clutching her wand while the other clamped over her sprinting heart.

Draco stepped into the light, one side of his lips turned up as he raised his empty hands in the air. “Easy, Granger.” He tilted his head slightly. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh,” she mumbled, scrambling for words. She lowered her wand, though her heart continued to race as he stepped closer.

“Why  _are_  you still awake?” He reached her side and plopped down on the fallen log.

Gingerly, she sat next to him. “I’m supposed to take the next shift for patrol.”

Draco frowned. "Next shift isn't for another two hours," he admonished. "Get some rest."

She sighed as her gaze returned to the fire. "Don't know if I can do that.”

He planted his elbows on his thighs and leaned forward, trying to catch her eye. “You won’t be any good on patrol if you nod off, you know.”

Hermione mirrored his posture. “I can’t turn my mind off to sleep,” she admitted.

“I cannot fathom a reality where Hermione Granger’s mind isn’t working on a problem twenty-four hours a day.” His velvet tone softened his words. “Tell me, what is it this time?”

“Tomorrow’s mission,” she murmured.

He sat straight up. “You’re not going.” His smooth voice turned to steel.

“I’m  _not_ ,” she said, feeling defensive.

Draco released a quiet breath, and his shoulders marginally relaxed. “Good,” he clipped.

“I don’t think  _anyone_  should be going!” She stood up and faced him. “It’s far too dangerous, and, really, I don’t see why it’s necessary—”

He stretched to his full height and gazed down at her. She hadn’t realized how close she was—for at this propinquity, she noticed the campfire light reflecting two bright points in his grey eyes. The longer she gazed into them, the more intense the fire became, and heat flashed through her as though she stood too close to the blaze.

She took a shaky step back. “I-I mean—that is—” Hermione gulped. “I don’t think anyone should go to Diagon Alley tomorrow,” she whispered.

“You know we need to go,” he said quietly. “We only have six wands to share among us. It’s simple arithmetic, Granger—”

“We’re fine!” she said. “We’ve made do with those wands for months! As long as we keep our wards strong, there’s no need to get more wands!” She wrung her hands in front of her—not out of anxiety, but to keep them from grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him to his senses.

“And what if our wards are breached?” he countered, taking a step forward and narrowing the distance between them once again. “What if Death Eaters got into the camp and attacked? How are we to defend ourselves  _then_?”

Her gaze dropped to her hands, and she shook her head slowly.

“You have nothing to worry about,” he murmured.

She peeked at him from under her lashes.

"Everyone's going to be fine," Draco assured. "It's just going to be the three of us—me, Ron, and Dean. We’ll move stealthier if we go in small numbers." A grin formed on his lips. "Although I'm not sure we should be taking Weasley along if stealth is our number one priority. He's about as nimble as Crabbe in a tutu.”

"So why are you taking him along?" she asked stubbornly.

Draco shrugged one shoulder. "We need a pack mule.”

Hermione bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing, not wanting to encourage his terrible behavior. She swung her arm out, intending to slap his chest with the back of her hand—

He caught her wrist in the air. Breath was snatched from her lungs.

His fingertips caressed a sensitive spot at the base of her palm, and she was afraid he could feel how her pulse raced at his touch.

He bent his head down a fraction. “Granger.” His lips turned up in a slow smile that reached his eyes. “ _Hermione_.” His voice was velvet; and never in her entire life had her name sounded so beautiful. Then his eyebrows knit together as a thought flickered in his expressive eyes. “Is that what’s got you so worried? You’re anxious something might happen to Weasley?”

"Of course!” she said. “I'm scared that he might get hurt or captured—lots of things could happen on your mission, and there won't be backup in case you run into trouble!"

The corners of his lips dragged down. "Don't worry." He huffed as he released her arm. "I'll make sure your precious Weasley will make it through just fine—"

As he stepped away, she stopped him. He paused, glancing down at where her hand pressed against his bicep.

"I'm worried for you, too," Hermione whispered.

“But you’re  _more_  worried about  _his_  safety—”

She shook her head fervently. “There’s no competition,” she said hurriedly.

He blinked. “No?”

“Not at all,”—her tongue darted to wet her lips in preparation for something she’d been wanting to say for a long time—“ _Draco_.”

She wasn’t sure how it happened. One moment, she stood in awe, watching the glow of the campfire play on the chiseled surfaces of his face. He was a Grecian statue—pure marble inlaid with gold. And then she closed her eyes, and his lips were on hers—and the blaze in her chest finally engulfed her.

* * *

 

 

**Ron**

**October 31, 1999**

 

"What do you think?" Hermione asked as they checked the wards along the perimeter.

"I don't know," Ron murmured. “Maybe the wards weren’t cast well the first time.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his muscles tensed with anxiety. "Do you think they’re trying to spook us? Draw us out of hiding?" he whispered.

Hermione shook her head. "I don’t know,” she said. “The wards wouldn’t just flicker like that if they were left alone. The wards have been… _shuddering_ …for five minutes. Like someone’s testing it—jiggling a doorknob to see if it’s locked.”

The wind whistled through the trees. It was the only noise apart from the hushed voices of the camp. The comforting sound of nocturnal animals was eerily absent. “I don’t like this,” he admitted.

Hermione worried her bottom lip between her teeth as her dark eyes searched the shadows beyond the trees. His heart went out to her—Malfoy had gone with a small party to replenish their diminishing supplies. They were supposed to be back an hour ago.

Ron laid a comforting hand on her shoulder and tucked her into his side, hugging her close like he would a sister. At least, that was his intent—for he wasn’t sure  _exactly_  how one would treat a sister, being the youngest child of a family of boys.

Their heads snapped to the right as a man stumbled out of the woods. He fell on his hands and knees, panting for air.

“Draco!” Hermione tore out of Ron’s embrace and rushed to her boyfriend’s side.

Ron was at her heels. “Malfoy, what happened?!”

Draco raised his head. Blood seeped from a diagonal gash on his forehead, inky in the waning moonlight. A dark circle formed around his left eye. “Ambush,” he rasped. He grappled Hermione’s shoulder as she pulled him up. “They’re—they’re  _here_. Get everyone out!”

Hermione whipped towards Ron, her eyes wide with fear. “Warn them!”

Without another word, Ron pointed his wand above the tents and shot a light that glowed deep red—their signal to evacuate. No sooner had he done so that the ground shook—and their protective wards fell.

Fire rained down as a war cry echoed from beyond the trees.

“Go, Ron!” Hermione yelled, stumbling under Draco’s weight. “Get everyone out of here!”

There was chaos. People grabbed their nearest companion and  _Apparated_  out while balls of flames plummeted from the sky. One caught the canvas of a shoddy orange tent—the one where his mother had been resting. A cold shiver shot up his spine.

“Mum!” he yelled as he dashed to the blazing tent. He pointed his wand, dousing it with water as he approached, but the inferno was too strong to be subdued. “Mum!  _Mum!_ ” He threw an arm over the lower half of his face as he entered, squinting through the heavy smoke.

“Ronald!” his mum screamed. She was doubled over several feet inside the tent, wheezing and sputtering and gasping.

He cleared a path to her. In a flash, he threw her arm over his shoulder and half-dragged her out of the tent. They stumbled outside—headlong into more danger. Black cloaks swarmed their camp, the raging fires glinting off their ornate masks.

Before they could be noticed, Ron and Molly turned and  _Apparated_  out.

* * *

 

**Molly**

**October 31, 1999**

 

Molly's entire body felt destroyed—her lungs charred from smoke inhalation and her skin spotted with angry red burns.

“Mum?”

She hadn’t realized until then that her eyes were closed; she lifted her heavy eyelids. “Ronald?”

“Oh, thank  _Merlin_ ,” he whispered.

Her vision swam, and she blinked, focusing on her son’s worried face. “What…happened?” she wheezed.

The muscles of his forehead tensed. “The camp was attacked. You were trapped inside a burning tent.”

Fear lanced through her chest, and she clutched Ron’s arm. “Your brothers?”

He shook his head, blue eyes downcast. “I don’t know.”

Molly slid up the wall—her eyes briefly registered that Ron had taken her to a small cave and leaned her against a craggy surface—and sat up as much as she could. “Ronald—you have to go back—your brothers—”

Ron’s eyes flickered up. “I can’t leave you here!”

She leaned forward, using his arm as support. Her thoughts flashed on her sons, who were all in the camp when Death Eaters attacked. None of them had wands except for Ron, who was on patrol that evening. Dread clawed at her belly. She couldn’t handle losing any more children—not after Fred’s death—she simply wouldn’t  _survive_ —

“ _Please_ ,” she whispered. “Find your brothers. Bring them back.”

“Mum—”

Her fingers dug into his arm. “ _Go!_ ”

For a long moment, Ron stared at her. Then, with a sharp nod, he got to his feet. “Stay here,” he ordered. Before she could say another word, he  _Apparated_  out.

Minutes later, she succumbed to the darkness.

The next time she opened her eyes, another figure loomed over her. “Ronald?” Molly mumbled. As her vision cleared, she realized she was wrong. The figure was decidedly feminine, with long hair the color of glowing embers and eyes like brown agate.

“You’re alive,” the young woman stated.

“Who—” Molly squeezed her eyes shut, willing the world to stop spinning. When she opened her eyes again, she croaked, “Who are you?”

“I am Djinn,” the woman replied. Her fingers played with the ruby pendant at the hollow of her neck. "You’re in my home." She fluttered her hand, gesturing to the cave's damp walls and low ceiling. “But you don’t seem to be any danger to me. I’ll let you stay for now.” Her thin, bright lips pulled up into a smile.

Once again, Molly's vision lurched, and she closed her eyes before nausea took over. “I really wish this dizziness would go away,” Molly complained.

The woman laughed softly. “How curious,” she mumbled. “People usually ask for more than that,”—her long fingers pressed against Molly’s forehead—“power and wealth. You’re different, aren’t you?”

With each breath, her dizziness and nausea subsided, though the fog of exhaustion remained. Molly pried her eyes open and met the woman's gaze, a mixture of pity and amusement. “Who did you say you were again?” she asked, desperately clinging to consciousness.

“Djinn,” the woman answered plainly.

A smile tugged on Molly’s lips. “Hmmm. What a pretty name,” she said. Even to her ears, her voice sounded thin and reedy. “Is it short for anything? Ginevra, perhaps?”

The woman’s eyes twinkled. “You may call me Djinni if you like.”

Molly nodded. Then her head lolled to the side; her eyes drifted to the mouth of the cave. Beyond, moonlight bathed the woods in silver.

“Something wrong?”

With a sigh, Molly answered her. “I’m just…worried." She blinked slowly as she gazed into the distance. "Waiting.”

“For whom?”

“My children,” she rasped. “My sons. I have six of them,”—her eyelids were growing heavy again—“seven, if you count Harry. And I do,” she rambled groggily. A wry chuckle escaped her lips. “Though I do wish, sometimes, I had a girl, too.” Another sigh; she gave in to the weight of her eyelids, letting them droop. “If I had a daughter, she would have looked like you…red hair…brown eyes…”

Somewhere inside the cave, water dripped—slow, steady.  _Plop. Plop._

When she said no more, the woman spoke up. “Molly?”

Her eyes opened into slits. “Hmm?”

“One more,” the woman— _Ginny,_ was it?—said. “What else do you wish?”

Molly was floating; her limbs felt light and her mind flitted from thought to thought like an errant butterfly. What did the woman say? Oh, yes—“Wish?” Molly mumbled. Visions of the burning camp played in her mind. “I wish…more than anything…that Voldemort was gone. That Harry had killed him when he had the chance.” Now her entire body was filled with lead, and she was sinking, slipping fast into unconsciousness. “If only…wishes…were flowers…on the side…of the road…” she trailed, losing hold of her thoughts as her mind swam in murky waters.

A hand brushed the matted hair off her forehead. “Sleep now, Molly. When you wake, all will be well.”

Molly parted her lips—wanted to ask, “ _How do you know my name?_ ”—but darkness came for her once again.

 

* * *

 

 

**Harry**

**September 1, 2017**

 

The train chugged merrily along the tracks, its caboose a pinpoint on the horizon. He turned to the group of redheads, and his gaze landed on his wife. “Ready, Gin?”

Ginny glanced at him, her lips jutted in a concerned pout. Beside her, Hermione wilted. Harry shared a knowing look with his wife before wrapping an arm around his best friend’s shoulders.

Hermione gave him a pitiful look. “I wish Rose didn’t have to go so far for school.”

On Hermione’s other side, Ginny chuckled quietly as she tugged on the ruby pendant hanging from her neck. “Do you really?”

Harry shook Hermione’s shoulders gently. “You don’t really mean that,” he said. “Think of all the adventures she’ll have at Hogwarts!”

Hermione answered him with a dead-eyed stare.

“I mean, obviously, I hope these kids aren’t as adventurous as  _we_  were as children,” he said, “but I do hope they have just as much fun.”

A reluctant smile broke out on her face. “You’re right,” Hermione conceded. “I hope Rose has an  _appropriate_  level of fun during her time at Hogwa—” She stiffened under his arm. He followed her gaze and was taken aback when Draco Malfoy and his wife approached—though it looked more like the latter was dragging the sullen former behind her.

"Hello!" Astoria greeted them. “We haven’t formally met. I'm Astoria Malfoy." She gestured to the blond. "I'm sure you remember my husband Draco?"

"Don’t I wish I could forget," Harry muttered.

Ginny elbowed him in the side. "Hi," she said with a polite smile.

Astoria beamed. "We just wanted to come by and say hello because we saw our son chatting with your children. Scorpius, well, he gets along with just about everyone he meets. I'm sure our children will become fast friends!"

Harry bit the insides of his cheeks to keep the rude retort from escaping. His more diplomatic wife answered for them. “I’ve no doubt they will.”

As the two women smiled at each other, an awkward silence settled on the others.

Astoria cleared her throat. “Well, I’m sure we’ll see each other again, soon!” She gave her husband a pointed look.

With a suppressed huff, Draco held out his hand—first, to shake Ginny’s hand, which she did with subdued amusement.

Then, he held his hand out to Hermione. His best friend stared at it, taking a fortifying breath before clasping his fingers. She dropped it just as quickly, retracting her palm to her chest as if Draco’s touch burned her.

For a moment, Draco’s hand curled into a fist at his side.

Another bout of silence assaulted them. Harry’s arm was still around Hermione’s shoulders; with each passing second of the tense encounter, her shoulders morphed into stone.

Wishing for the tete-a-tete to end, Harry bolstered his nerve and offered his hand to Draco. “See you around, Malfoy.”

Draco’s cool gaze met his challenge. His frown deepened as he grasped Harry’s hand. “Yes,” he said gravely, his eyes flickering to Hermione. “I’ll be seeing you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story/art is part of an anonymous fest. Reveals of authors and artists will be posted on 1st of November. Follow us on [TUMBLR](https://hp-creatures.tumblr.com/).


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